


you can count on me to misbehave

by amainiris



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Multi, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-10-14 09:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amainiris/pseuds/amainiris
Summary: “So how does the story end?”The three of them are strewn across Margaery’s bed, Sansa in the crook of her elbow and Dany nestled innocuously against the opposite curve of Margaery's breast. It’s a golden summer evening and all of them are at least a little drunk on wine coolers and vodka-and-Sprites -- vestiges of Margaery’s grad party, which still flows on beneath her half-opened bedroom window. Margaery stirs a little in the heavy heat and her fingertips skim Sansa’s arm; Sansa stiffens slightly at the contact, but otherwise does her best to give no hint that she has felt it at all.Because three is better than two, right?





	1. Chapter 1

“So how does the story end?”

The three of them are strewn across Margaery’s bed, Sansa in the crook of her elbow and Dany nestled innocuously against the opposite curve of her breast. It’s a golden summer evening and all of them are at least a little drunk on wine coolers and vodka-and-Sprites -- vestiges of Margaery’s grad party, which still flows on beneath her half-opened bedroom window. Margaery stirs a little in the heavy heat and her fingertips skim Sansa’s arm; Sansa stiffens slightly at the contact, but otherwise does her best to give no hint that she has felt it at all.

“How does it end?” Dany’s voice sounds frustrated in the gentle gloom. “Seriously, Sansa? It ends with me completely destroying him in the finals, isn’t that obvious?”

Margaery’s giggle is infectious; soon, the other two girls are giggling too. This isn’t the summer of Sansa’s childhood but summer as she has come to know it--full-throated, poignant, almost sweetly sad.

“Sorry,” she murmurs then, hushed against Margaery’s skin. The trill of the ceiling fan overhead swamps them in a stillness so total that it is almost difficult for her to move; this rose-scented bedroom has been her haven for the past six months, ever since she fell in with Margaery’s crowd to begin with. The Tyrell girl ruled the halls of Kingsland Preparatory Academy with an iron fist, relenting only partially when Daenerys Targaryen had appeared to give her challenge. Sansa finds the dynamics between the two best friends oddly fascinating; they quarrel constantly, but never with any bitterness. And she’s positive that they absolutely love one another, despite it all.

“Don’t apologize,” says Margaery, and she moves to stroke back Sansa’s hair, her fingers becoming tangled in the long reddish locks. “Dany’s just being difficult. As usual.”

“She’s never difficult,” Sansa says diplomatically, even as she feels herself move against Margaery’s hand. “She’s always--”

“Wonderfully incorrigible,” finishes Margaery, and Sansa can imagine the sweet quirk of her lips, the way she always looks before brimming over into self-contained laughter. It makes Sansa’s own mouth tug into a smile, despite herself. 

“‘Wonderfully incorrigible’? How old _ are _ you?” Sansa feels Dany shift slightly on the bed, and the other girl’s voice is sharp with feigned disdain.

“Um, pretty sure we’re all the same age here.” And it's true; Sansa had turned eighteen just three days before. The three of them had celebrated, along with Alla and Doreah and Jeyne, at a little Thai restaurant on the outskirts of town. Margaery had given her a bouquet of the most gorgeous flowers she'd ever seen, and they still sat on her kitchen table now; Dany had gifted her with a ring in the shape of a twining dragon, little jewels inset along its length. Sansa put it on when the other girl had given it to her, and hasn't taken it off since.

The three of them lapse into comfortable silence. Through Margaery's window Sansa can hear shouts and laughter, yet up here they are strangely cocooned, wrapped in peaceable quiet. Margaery's bed is an almost-cool respite from the rest of the world and Sansa feels her eyelids begin to flutter closed—at least until she feels the other girl's hand again, coaxing back her heavy hair and smoothing it through her slim fingers. 

"Margaery—"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Margaery suddenly laughs, and it's a high, glittering sound. "You're adorable, Sansa." 

Sansa feels herself blush. Both girls have this sort of effect on her at times; they're just so _ cool _, Dany with her silvery-gold hair and beat-up army jacket, Margaery with her doe-like eyes and the perfect flush of her pale skin. They're both beautiful, too, undeniably so. Dany's face is like something from a childhood fairy tale, immaculately perfect, and Margaery's smile sometimes makes Sansa a little unsteady for a reason that she doesn't fully understand. Not that she's looked at it too closely. Sansa identifies loosely as straight—loosely. She's had fantasies about other girls but they were just that: fantasies. And she isn't really interested in reevaluating her sexuality anytime soon.

Right?

But now Dany has pulled herself up and is leaning on an elbow, and Sansa isn't unaware of the way the other girl's body is pressing into Margaery's. The realization stirs a faint heat in the pit of her stomach, and she immediately looks away, towards the primrose wall.

"You're trying to make me jealous," she hears Dany say in an imperious tone, and before Sansa can process the meaning of the words themselves there is the sound of a little pleased gasp and then the muffled noise of—

Sansa turns back to look, only half-believing.

Dany and Margaery are _ kissing _, and this might not be exactly a playful kiss between friends; Dany's hand is slipping underneath Margaery's shirt to map the bare skin there, and Margaery is sighing into the other girl's open mouth, one hand deep in Dany's hair and the other sliding down her back, pulling the blonde on top of her. Sansa's heart is beating somewhere in her throat and she is oddly transfixed; every stroke of Margaery's hand down Dany's skin evokes a sort of unfamiliar shudder deep within herself.

It's as if she isn't even there. Dany is cradling Margaery's cheek with the hand that is not exploring underneath the other girl's shirt, she is half on top of her, and their bare legs are entwined now, sinuous. Sansa's mouth is dry. She doesn't know whether to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all or to get up and leave or to... to what? She blames the heat stirring in her belly on the vodka she'd drank.

"Um." She doesn't even mean to say it; it just sort of _ slips _ out. And yet her two friends don't seem overly disturbed. Dany's mouth has dropped down to Margaery's neck, and almost hazily the brunette's eyes drift to Sansa even as she winds her hand deeper in the other girl's hair.

Margaery grins, full and illuminating.

"Guess we never told you that the rumors are all true," she says, sweetly enough, and it's then that Dany lifts her white-gold head, twists her slim frame so that she can gaze directly at Sansa. Her full mouth looks wet, shiny, and Sansa nervously glances away, back to Margaery. 

"What?— Oh. _ Those _ rumors." Sansa swallows and pulls herself up into a sitting position, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt down over her thighs for lack of anything else to do. The room feels hotter than it did before, swamped in a golden languor, and Margaery's glittering smile is heavy with intent of a sort that isn't entirely foreign to Sansa. It makes her feel as though bird wings are fluttering against the cage of her stomach. "So, um, should I—go?" 

Dany's voice, lower than Margaery's, and more melodic, almost interrupts the end of Sansa's awkward question. The blonde girl is looking over at her now with that familiar confidence along with a prominent lack of embarrassment, and her next words terrify and thrill Sansa in equal measure.

"Do you want to?"

Does she _ want _ to go? Sansa looks almost helplessly at the two girls in front of her—the blonde so incredible that men driving past her on the street would habitually risk car accidents for a second look, the brunette with her lovely vulpine face and poison-sweet smile. Margaery's shirt is still drawn up to just beneath her breasts, exposing a plane of flat stomach; her skirt, which had been impeccably pressed, is now disheveled and revealing quite a bit of thigh. And Sansa, on some level, admits to herself what she didn't want to admit before: she's painfully curious.

Her silence gives her away. 

"You've never even kissed a girl before," says Margaery knowingly, her lips still slightly quirked. She doesn't move to readjust her blouse or skirt, just fixes Sansa with those wide, innocuous eyes.

"No." Sansa can feel herself flush. "But I'd like to—I mean. Um." She is flustered and embarrassed and _ hot _; the room suddenly seems absolutely sweltering. "What I mean to say is—"

"Then do it." Somehow Dany's voice always has a slight tone of command, even when she's merely giving suggestions. "Kiss Margaery."

"Oh—okay. If she... wants to." 

Sansa isn't usually so easily flustered, so shy and graceless. But Dany's eyes are hot on her skin, and Margaery is smiling a little again, pulling herself up into a sitting position and leaning dangerously close. Now her face hovers like a dream does, just out of Sansa's reach, even as she reaches up to stroke the thick auburn hair away from Sansa's face once more. "You know—" She pauses, glances at Sansa through dark lashes. "I've been thinking about this for months." 

Sansa feels her face flush hot. She can't even remember the last time that a guy made her blush, she realizes distantly, but Margaery Tyrell and Daenerys Targaryen have some bizarre power over her that she doesn't quite understand. _ Maybe I do understand, though. Maybe I understand completely _. Sansa can't tell if the realization thrills her or terrifies her.

"You're gorgeous, Sansa," Margaery is saying, and then—finally—she is touching her, slipping her hand underneath the other girl's miniskirt to stroke the soft bare skin of her leg. It's difficult to concentrate on what Margaery's _ saying _ when her fingertips are tracing little patterns all over the inside of her thigh, but Sansa tries valiantly, anyway. "And the question is obviously—do _ you _ really want to kiss _ me? _"

Her hand brushes between Sansa's legs almost like a promise, and Sansa gives a tiny gasp, a sharp little inhalation of breath. "Yes," she says immediately, not even noticing how her voice has taken on the slight intonation of a beg. "Yes, I really want to kiss y—"

And then Margaery's mouth is hot up against hers, and the other girl tastes sweet, sweet as honey, and there are stars flaring now behind Sansa's closed eyelids. _ Am I seriously— _ Sansa thinks, or begins to think, because soon she can think of absolutely nothing but the way Margaery is sucking expertly along her lower lip, how one hand is wound deep in Sansa's hair, dragging her even closer, and the other slipping from her cheek to her neck to her breasts...

Gently but firmly Margaery eases Sansa down onto the bed and then pulls back up to straddle her. Her slight weight is marvelous; almost shyly Sansa reaches out to clasp the other girl's bare thighs, and Margaery just gives her another tight little smile. "Good," Margaery murmurs as she slips back down on top of her, breasts pushed up hard against Sansa's now, "Good girl—"

Then her mouth opens back up into Sansa's and this time, Sansa can taste the alcohol on her breath but doesn't remotely care. There's an aching heat between her legs that's all too familiar, and when she feels Margaery's hips grind against hers she can't help it: she lets out a stifled little gasp. 

"You like that?" The other girl is speaking too softly for Dany to hear, but Sansa feels herself blush anyway, absurdly, even as she aches for— for what, exactly?

"Yes," she breathes, and at this Margaery shifts her right thigh and presses it up—hard—against that aching place between her legs. It elicits something sweeter and hotter than relief; Sansa hears herself moan and Margaery giggle a little against her mouth. Then the other girl is rolling off of her to lay on the bed, and the disappointment Sansa feels when their bodies part is as sharp as a wasp's sting.

"What do you think, Dany?" Margaery's voice sounds almost like a purr; Sansa suddenly feels a hand on her leg, slipping beneath the short skirt of her dress to trace little patterns on her upper thigh again. 

But Dany doesn’t answer with words. Instead she props herself up on her elbows, watches the two of them with impassive, almost-violet eyes. She doesn’t even have to speak, Sansa thinks faintly. They all know what she wants.

And so Sansa pulls herself up, heart in her mouth, presses her torso against Margaery’s and kisses Dany full on the mouth. The moment seems to last an impossibly long time; at least, until Dany parts her lips, hungry and heated with some indecipherable flame.

When Sansa yanks herself away, Margaery’s hand warm on her thigh and the taste of Dany honey-sweet in her mouth, she says nothing. At least until Dany leans forward, eyes bright with intent, cupping Sansa’s chin sweetly in her hand.

“Do you want to, Sansa?”

She can only nod yes.

  



	2. II

In that moment Sansa is certain that her entire body has come awake, that she can feel her nerves humming to her very fingertips and that her face is flushed with heat. She doesn’t speak, because she can’t. She looks to Dany and Margaery instead.

“We’ve done this before,” Margaery says, in the gentle, prim voice one uses with a child. Her eyes, though, are hot on Sansa’s skin. “But never with…”

“With another girl too?”

“Yes,” Dany says, drawing herself up to her small height on the bed, delicate white hands curling on her knees. She’s smiling. “I mean, we -- we _talked_ about it, of course, but it ended up being so obvious that the only one we wanted to try it with was… you.”

Sansa tilts her face down at once to hide the ridiculous, incriminating blush, and for a few moments there’s nothing but silence. When she finally feels as though she can speak without humiliating herself, she asks, “Why _me_?”

“Look at you,” Margaery murmurs, a cat’s purr, and suddenly Sansa can feel the other girl’s firm breasts pressed up against her back, Margaery’s hands drifting under the shirt Sansa is wearing to run her thumbs gently across her nipples. Sansa comes back to herself with a little electric start, a gasp of pleasure. “You’re just so…” And then Margaery is leaning over and kissing Sansa’s neck, one hand twined in deep reddish hair, sucking little kisses into the freckled white skin. “God,” Sansa hears Margaery murmur from behind her with a little laugh, “I’m already…”

“I’ve never done this before,” Sansa murmurs stupidly, obviously, even as her breath hitches a little.

“We can teach you,” Dany murmurs, and now she’s crawling towards Margaery and Sansa on the bed, where Margaery is still attending to Sansa’s neck, her hands far up Sansa’s shirt. Dany approaches from the front, instead, and smiles that impossible smile before placing a hand to Sansa’s cheek and murmuring, “We can make you feel so good, Sans, so good--”

And then Dany’s kissing her full on the mouth, a heated kiss, an angry kiss, and it thrills Sansa to her very bones. The faint heat between her legs ignites into an ache; and Sansa is kissing her back, teeth-tongue-lips, even as her own hands are slipping up Dany’s shirt and pulling it over her head because she wants to _see_ her, she wants to see _all of her_ \--

Dany smiles, pleased, and helps Sansa lift the blouse over her own head. She isn’t wearing a bra, and her small high breasts are heaving slightly -- from excitement? Nervousness? With a hunger Sansa didn’t know she had, she leans forward and presses Dany to the bed, kissing her way from her waist up to the hollow between her breasts, the glow of the wine and vodka only secondary to the heat that’s surging through her right now -- God, she didn’t even know she could _feel_ like this--

Dany reaches for her and kisses Sansa full on the mouth, tasting of wine, of warmth. Sansa’s heart is in her mouth and in the moment she isn’t sure what’s good and what’s bad but she does know that she’s never felt this way, ever--

When Sansa breaks away from their kiss, gasping just a little, she looks back towards Margaery, who is shirtless, without a bra, and wearing a skirt that seems somehow falsely demure. “Should I…” Margaery tilts her head coyly, gorgeous sunny brown curls tumbling all over her shoulders and down her back. “Should I take this off too?”

“You know my answer,” Dany says coolly. “But what about Sansa?”

“Y-yes,” Sansa says, and then straightens. “Yes, please.”

“‘Please’? You are so adorable.” And, with that, Margaery slips the skirt off her hips -- and Sansa is shocked (though maybe, she shouldn’t be) to see that she’s wearing absolutely nothing underneath it.

“And now,” Margaery murmurs, crawling over the great bed to Sansa again, every movement making Sansa ache, “It’s your turn.”

Everything about Margaery is beautiful: the harp-shaped back, the little mole above her lip, long slender runner’s legs, the graceful sweep of her arms. For an instant Sansa panics, thinking that there is no possible way to match up to them, that she will be hideous in comparison, that they won’t want her anymore-- but then she sees the soft, hungry, yawning expression on Dany’s face and her fears vanish almost at once.

“Let me,” Margaery says softly, kindly, lifting the t-shirt over Sansa’s head and unclasping her bra. After she does so, Sansa covers her chest at once, bizarrely embarrassed.

“Don’t,” Margaery says softly. “You really are so beautiful.”

Sansa flushes, and lowers her arms. The eyes of Dany and Margaery are like searchlights, and God, she can feel herself getting wet just from them staring at her like that--

“Take off your panties, Sansa,” Dany says, head tilted just a little like a cat--but then, she’d always reminded Sansa of a cat. And something so thrilling and confusing that Sansa can’t even name it sings through her body. Shyly, she goes to unzip the skirt she’s wearing, slide it down her legs and then off, powerfully aware that Dany and Margaery are watching her the entire time. Then…

She takes in a little breath, and slides her panties off, too.

When she turns back to face them, powerfully aware that they are now vulnerable, bare, hungry, she doesn’t exactly know what to do. After all--she’s never _done_ things like this before. She’d never even really _thought_ about it.

But they are both almost ridiculously, unfairly beautiful, and she’s wet now, she can feel it, and--

“Sansa,” Margaery says sweetly, “It’s okay. I pro--”

Sansa leans forward and kisses her.

And God, the feeling of skin-on-skin, the softness, so, so soft. Margaery opens her mouth under Sansa’s and then her tongue is in Sansa’s mouth and one hand is in Sansa’s hair and -- God -- the other hand is going between her legs, and Sansa doesn’t miss Margaery’s pleased little smile when she realizes just how wet Sansa is. She eases through the slickness to find Sansa’s clit, and rubs little circles with her thumb, enough to make Sansa gasp aloud. “Oh,” she breathes against Margaery’s mouth, “_Oh_\--”

And then she can feel Dany behind her, her breasts pressed up firmly against Sansa's back. When she feels Dany’s fingertips circling her nipples, pinching sharply, it’s all Sansa can do not to moan.

“You can’t come until I say you can,” Margaery murmurs with a little giggle, even as she continues to circle Sansa’s clit. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, oh, God--”

“Do you want to come?”

“Yes, _please_\--”

“Please?” Margaery is still smiling against Sansa’s mouth.

“Yes, please, _please_ let me--”

“Now,” Margaery breathes at last, and when Sansa comes it’s so hard that she fails to muffle her moans altogether. Her legs tremble, her breathing increases and she cries out before falling still, half-cradled in Margaery’s arms, Dany’s soft hand on her shoulder. She shudders deep within herself, tries to grasp to that raw pulse between her legs, the indecipherable bliss.

“Is that… is that it?” she asks.

Margaery laughs. “Oh, Sansa. It is, if you want it to be, but…”

Sansa lifts her blue eyes to Margaery’s. “No, no. I don’t want it to be.”

Dany looks to Margaery, and Margaery to Dany; when they glance back towards her, their veiled expressions are both soft and strangely hungry. They want me, still, Sansa realizes with a wicked thrill. They want me to touch them both; they want me to kiss them; they want my mouth everywhere, and my hands, and my tongue --

It’s almost too much to think about, but she's nearly sick with excitement now. Of what they'd just done. Of what they could _do._

“Can you teach me?” she asks.

“Sans…” Dany is leaning forward again, skimming the angular line of Sansa’s collarbone with her own thumb, light enough to send a shiver through her.

“We’ll teach you _everything_ we know.”


	3. III

Sansa is almost dizzy now, half-swooning as Dany edges around her and pulls Margaery close for an open-mouthed kiss. She’s transfixed at the sight of it; first sweet, then hungry, then sweet once more, their mouths giving one another’s little gasps of pleasure a home. The harp-shaped backs, the sweep of their golden arms; Daenerys’ body painted honey-sweet from the summer light, Margaery’s skin richer, deeper, almost a glorious rosebrown. Sansa thinks she’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then they break the kiss, their breathing ragged, and reach for Sansa at the exact same moment, Dany’s hand going to her right and Margaery’s to her left.

“W-what?” She’s still blushing; she’s still blushing like a _ fool. _

But this time, they say nothing, because they know what she wants, maybe, even more clearly than she does. 

And the next thing Sansa knows there are two warm bodies, bare, pressed up against her, and she can smell the vanilla-and-spice of Dany’s shampoo and the musk of her flesh and the low cool scent that Margaery always wears--God, it smells like _ roses, _like the sun in spring, like the last bloom to weather the storms.

She half-turns to kiss Dany, but Margaery is quicker than she is--suddenly their tongues are in one another’s mouths, three mouths open hot and wet. Dany’s hand pulls gently at Sansa’s hair, forcing her mouth open wider; Sansa lets her, driven by some force she can’t understand and which she fears she never will. And then they’re easing her back, onto the great green bed, and as her skin touches the indescribably smooth silk Sansa shudders. She feels, almost, like a child.

Margaery prowls over her like a maternal animal, kisses her mouth then draws lower, and lower yet. Her southbound kisses pause over the sensitive junction between Sansa’s legs; and Sansa’s eyes are on the ceiling, even as her back arches and she pleads, _ pleads _, for something she’s never even felt —

And then Margaery’s mouth presses down sweetly, firmly, there, right over Sansa’s most sensitive spot, and Sansa cries out so sharply she’s afraid she’ll awaken everyone else in the house, and the neighborhood, too.

“You like that?” Margaery murmurs hotly from where she is posed on elbows and knees, ass in the air and her face between Sansa’s freckled-smooth thighs. “You want me to—”

“_ Please _,” Sansa says, “Please, Margaer—”

And then Margaery slides two fingers inside of her, crooking them wickedly, and Sansa’s hands go to her hair, pulling her close as Margaery laps at her most sensitive spot. Dimly she senses Margaery gasp, and through eyes half-shut from bliss she can see Dany on hands and knees behind Margaery, lapping at Margaery’s cunt like it’s the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted. Dany’s eyes are closed, her mouth and tongue are wet--and then Sansa’s head falls back onto the pillow, and there’s nothing, nothing but Margaery’s gasps and tongue and fingers at her own aching center.

With one final stroke of Margaery’s tongue against her, Sansa cries out sharply; her back arches, and then she collapses onto the bed trembling faintly. Above her she can see Margaery still on her elbows and knees — and it makes something hot stir in Sansa’s belly, just to _ see _ her that way — her face open and for once not carefully composed, the sweaty tendrils of honey-brown hair all across her face as she begs Dany to finally let her come. _ Please, _ she’s gasping, _ please, Dany, please, I want to — _

And then Margaery lets out a soft cry, her body goes tight as a bowstring — and she braces herself against the bed, weaving slightly from side to side. Sweat glitters gold all over her lithe frame; Dany is pulling herself back up onto her knees, smiling a little, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Her eyes are strangely dark.

“God,” Sansa says softly, “I never knew, how — I never knew what it could be like —”

“With two women?” Dany is prowling towards them now, and slides like a cat onto her belly next to Margaery. She reaches for Sansa, too.

“With--with anyone.” Sansa shyly slides between them, inhaling the scent of it all: sex, flowers, sweat, cheap alcohol and smoke from through the windows.

“Thank you,” she adds, in an even quieter voice yet. Her eyes are beginning to close.

Margaery’s fingertips are skimming her wrist. “For what, Sansa?”

“For… for loving me.”

“We don’t just love you…” Dany is drawing her hand along the flat plane of Sansa’s stomach, eliciting the tiniest ripple of goose bumps.

“We _ want you _, Sansa.”

“But what now?” High school has ended; all three are headed to Kingslark College in the fall, but university will be full of class, and parties, and endless amounts of _ boys. _ The type of boys who will fall in love with Margaery Tyrell or Daenerys Targaryen in an instant.

“What now?” Margaery’s voice has a curious tilt to it. “What do you mean?”

“College--the parties--the boys—”

Margaery pulls herself onto an elbow and gazes down at Sansa, very sweet. “It’s not boys that we want, Sansa. You can be frustratingly obtuse, you know. It’s not boys that we want.”

“Then—”

“We want _ you. _”

And then those two sweet mouths are pressing down on hers again, and Margaery’s hand is grasping Sansa’s breast, and as Sansa kisses them again and again and again, she realizes that until this moment, the word ‘belonging’ had always evaded her. The smell of them; the taste of them; the feel of them--

If this isn’t love, then that’s fine, Sansa thinks. 

Because no love could ever feel as sweet as this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I had a lot of fun writing this, I was wondering if anyone would want this to be continued in another fic? Possibly their adventures when they go to school -- the drama they deal with, the stresses of adulthood, how they struggle to stick together? If anyone's interested, I'd love to write it! (Or if you have another idea!)


End file.
